11:11

The telephone on the desk cut through the silence in the room like something loud and unexpected, which is exactly what it was. Jesus, Super Fetus begrudgingly pulled his head off the desk, crap simile aside (he would take the time to come up with a better one later, but for now there were more pressing matters). The phone.

It rang again, and Jesus immediately interrupted it’s unwelcome call by lifting the handset from it’s resting place. His good eye finding the clock to see it was 3:33 in the am. At this time of night he knew, the person on the other end of the phone either had the wrong number, or the right one...because they’re in trouble and need a hero...and they’re calling one. Maybe the similes should wait until he was more awake. Divine fetus or no, without a stiff cup of joe, he was useless on just a handful of z’s.

“Second Coming Detective Agency,” he spoke gruffly through strained, underdeveloped vocal chords, made raspier by the over-application of alcohol they suffered through the previous day. The voice on the other end made Jesus sit straight up in his chair. He hadn’t spoken to the Pope since denouncing all that the Catholic Church stood for after returning from his aborted grave. Benevolence and diplomacy often took a back seat with Jesus just after a resurrection, but even he felt he could have handled that situation better. But now, here was the Pope, calling on the fetus that turned on him.

Jesus knew this couldn’t be an easy call for old Bene to have made, so he felt that he should at least extend something of a reciprocal olive branch to the old bastard.

“Jesus?” Ratzinger asked, his voice ringing with hopeful desperation like a high school virgin on prom night.

“Nazi.” Jesus replied coughing off a bit of laughter. Okay so maybe the olive branch would come later.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that.” Ratzinger spat, reeling in as much contempt as he could, and failing miserably like a stoner trying to control the munchies in a candy shop.